In gems and garlands proudly deck'd,
As if themselves were things divine.
No-Heaven but faintly warms the breast
That beats beneath a broider'd veil;
And she who comes in glitt'ring vest
To mourn her frailty, still is frail.'

Not so the faded form I prize

And love, because its bloom is gone; The glory in those sainted eyes

Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light, In holy lustre wastes away.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

(AIR. STEVENSON.)

THIS world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given; The smiles of Joy, the tears of Wo, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow

There's nothing true, but Heaven'

And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of Even;

And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb-
There's nothing bright, but Heaven!

Poor wand'rers of a stormy day!

From wave to wave we're driven, And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way— There's nothing calm, but Heaven!

OH, THOU! WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.

(AIR.-HAYDN.)

"He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."-Psalm cxlvii. 3.

Or, Thou! who dry'st the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be,

1 Ου γαρ κρουσφορείν την δακρυούσαν δει.—Chrysost. Homil. 8, in Epist. ad Tim.

2 This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel Bainbrigge.who was married in Ashbourne church, October 31, 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after: the sound of her marriage-bells seemed scarcely out

If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!
The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,

Must weep those tears alone.
But thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of wo.

When joy no longer sooths or cheers,
And e'en the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too,

Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy Wing of Love

Come, brightly wafting through the gloom
Our Peace-branch from above?

Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray;
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day!

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

AIR.-AVISON.

WEEP not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or earth had profaned what was born for the
skies.

Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it;

"Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course, And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchain'd it,

To water that Eden where first was its source. Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,1 Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,

of our ears when we heard of her death. During her last delirium she sung several hymns, in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were some from the present collection, (particularly, "There's nothing bright but Heaven,") which this very interesting girl had often heard me sing during the summer.

Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale, And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow.

On, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown

And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying,

Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own. Weep not for her-in her spring-time she flew

To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd;

And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew, Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.

(AIR. STEVENSON.)

THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine; My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine; My censer's breath the mountain airs, And silent thoughts my only prayers.'

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murm'ring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
E'en more than music, breathes of Thee.

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, All light and silence, like thy Throne ; And the pale stars shall be, at night, The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy Heaven, on whiclr 'tis bliss to look, Shall be my pure and shining book, Where I shall read, in words of flame, The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack

That clouds awhile the day-beam's track; Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness, breaking through.

There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of thy Deity.

Pii orant tacitè.

2 I have so much altered the character of this air, which is from the beginning of one of Avison's old-fashioned concertos, that, without this acknowledgment, it could hardly, I think, be recognised.

There's nothing dark, below, above, But in its gloom I trace thy Love, And meekly wait that moment, when Thy touch shall turn all bright again!

SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL MIRIAM'S SONG.

(AIR.-AVISON.3)

"And Miriam the Prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances."— Exod. xv. 20.

SOUND the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
JEHOVAH has triumph'd-his people are free.
Sing for the pride of the Tyrant is broken,

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and

brave

How vain was their boast, for the LORD hath but spoken,

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the

wave.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea; JEHOVAH has triumph'd-his people are free.

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the LORD!
His word was our arrow, his breath was our

sword.

Who shall return to tell Egyp story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the LORD hath look'd out from his pillar of glory,

And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the

tide.

Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea; JEHOVAH has triumph'd-his people are free!

GO, LET ME WEEP.
(AIR. STEVENSON.)

Go, let me weep-there's bliss in tears,
When he who sheds them inly feels
Some ling'ring stain of early years

Effaced by every drop that steals.

"And it came to pass, that, in the morning watch the Lord looked unto the host of the Egyptians, through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians."-Ezod. xiv. 24.